


have some composure (where is your posture?)

by wandasmaximoffs



Series: you and the stage and the wars you'll wage [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Minor Injuries, Musician/Dancer AU, backing dancer!grantaire, im pumped abt this au not gonna lie, mother hen!joly, pop star!enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:00:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: “It’s probably a sprain or a minor fracture. I don’t think you need to go to the ER or anything just yet, but if it’s still causing you pain in a few days an X-Ray might be helpful. But until then...”What is important to understand is that Grantaire, as a dancer, as anexperienceddancer, can see where this conversation is going. And he doesn’t like it, not a bit, but-- What can he do? As the pain intensifies, his chances of even being able to walk of this fucking dressing room on his own drop, and if he can barelywalkhe can hardlydance,can he?





	have some composure (where is your posture?)

It happens around mid-may, nearing the middle of the tour when everyone is getting a little tired, a little slow, a little  _careless._

 

Grantaire barely even notices, when it happens; the adrenaline of a show can carry him through just about anything, but as they all stumble off of the stage at the end of the night, the sporadic pains shooting through his ankle are _definitely_  getting worse.

“Hen _ri,”_ Joly clucks, pushing him down into a folding chair in one of the dressing rooms so he can fuss like a  _proper_  mother hen. In retrospect, he must have been crazy to expect that Joly wouldn’t notice him  _limping_ back to the bus, but he had hoped. “R. Were you trying to hide this from me?”  


Was he trying to hide a certainly  _minor injury_  from a fussy physician? Maybe.  


 

“Absolutely not, wouldn’t _dream_ of it.” Says Grantaire, but the grin he flashes is somewhat marred by the swelling of his ankle and the way his mouth twists in pain every time Joly  _pokes_ at it.  
  
The half-grin fades pretty soon, though, as quickly as the adrenaline of the show does; So maybe it hurts a little more than he thought it did. But that’s fine, he’ll be fine after some sleep, and something to eat–  
  
“It’s _fine,_ ” He grits out, head in his hands as Joly frowns over him.  
  
“It’s not. But it’s okay! That was bad wording. It’s _almost_  not fine. You’ll be fine.” He adds, hastily, seeing the stricken look on Grantaire’s face and backpedalling. He’s got a terrible bedside manner when it comes to dancers.  
  
“It’s probably a sprain or a minor fracture. I don’t think you need to go to the ER or anything just yet, but if it’s still causing you pain in a few days– We’ll see, an X-Ray might be helpful. But until then…”

 

What is important to understand is that Grantaire, as a dancer, as an  _experienced_  dancer, can see where this conversation is going. And he doesn’t like it, not a bit, but– What can he do? As the pain intensifies, his chances of even being able to walk of this fucking dressing room on his own drop, and if he can barely _walk_  he can hardly _dance,_  can he?

He’s thinking this over, and is about to try and plead a fruitless case to Joly about tomorrow’s show, when Enjolras bounces in; makeup removed, hair a mess, looking–  
  


Well. Looking like  _Enjolras._  Which, honestly? When he’s in this state? Unfair.  
  


_“Great_ show today, guys! I really appreciate– Oh.”

He stops short as soon as he sees Grantaire slumped in that pathetic-looking chair, Joly kneeling on a throw pillow in front of him and armed with likely an entire countrie’s worth of ice packs.

“Are you alright, R?” That’s another one of Enjolras’ many, many talents, Grantaire supposes; he can go from over-excited to deadly concern at the drop of a pin, and even if he _is_  just putting it on for appearances, it doesn’t show; it’s hard to even imagine he’s anything but genuine, most of the time.  
  


Grantaire takes a deep breath in through his nose, half to combat the pain and half to combat dealing with Enjolras being all– being all _concerned_ about him, and tries to force his expression into something at least a  _little_ bit reassuring.

“Oh,  _fine,_  bossman, no worries. Nothing some painkillers and some sleep can’t fix.”

It almost sounds convincing, too, but then he catches Joly’s eye, and knows he’s done for.  
  
  


“Hm, _incorrect,”_ he says, clearly unimpressed, “Don’t think you can get around me by convincing Enjolras. You’re not dancing for at least three days, and we’ll see how it goes from there. Montparnasse can stand in for you while you’re out.”

He’s expecting some sort of get-well wish and then a hasty exit, because while Enjolras is  _unbelievably_ caring about the majority of the crew, a dancer with a sprained ankle is  _hardly_ something he needs to be worrying about in the middle of his third world tour.

 

But then he drops lightly to his knees beside Joly, frowning, and– And Grantaire  _really_ needs a cigarette.

“You’re  _hurt,”_  He says, quietly, and Grantaire is so very confused, but Enjolras looks so very sad, and–

Enjolras is a very tactile person. He knows this from the sheer fact that he’s been eating his take-out dinner sprawled across his or Combeferre’s lap almost every night for the past few months. So– So _what_  if he reaches out and tangles their fingers together? That means nothing. It’s a sign of reassurance, and nothing more.

it makes Enjolras smile, at least.

“God, Enjolras. I’ve barely been shot through with a  _crossbow,_  have I?” Says Grantaire, just as softly, though there’s an edge of something there– Wanting, maybe, longing– But it’s barely detectable, and Joly expects that when Enjolras replies, he’ll have something matching along those lines.  
  


These two are  _ridiculous._  
  


“Be _serious_ , R, if you’re hurt…” Enjolras trails off, still looking troubled. Grantaire smiles, properly and free of pain, and Joly has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“How can I, when I’m so  _wild_  and all?” He grins again, and Enjolras reaches up to punch his shoulder lightly, smiling despite himself. It still amazes Grantaire that he can elicit that reaction from him, a  _smile,_ a smile so beautiful he can understand why millions of people have posters of him on their bedroom walls.

(Including Grantaire’s younger sister, a fact that has long been a torment. There’s no escape from him, even when they’re on break and he’s trying to _relax_ and forget about his doomed love at home.)

 

Joly clears his throat before either of them can say anything else, looking pointedly towards the corridor.

“You have a meet and greet to be getting to, Enjolras, and my patient needs his rest.”

Enjolras looks confused, for a moment, but then it clicks, and he jumps to his feet.  
  


“Oh! Oh, you’re right, I do, shit– Okay, well, I’ll come see you later then, okay? And we can– I don’t know, we can talk, I’ll bring– Food, or something, aspirin? Something! And– Feel better soon, R!”  
  


Joly is pushing him out of the room before he can even finish his sentence, and the _feel better soon, R!_  is less said than it is yelled around the corner of a door, but Grantaire, a little starstruck, appreciates it all the same. 

**Author's Note:**

> woooOOOooo look its the musician/dancer au i was posting abt on my tumblr (which u can find @ jehanprouvaiire!! )
> 
> tbh im pretty psyched abt this au as a whole, and im more than happy to take prompts for it (and tbh any other one) on tumblr! as always thank u for reading my trash, feel free to tip ur fic writers with comments/kudos <333


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